existence. You allow him to win by doing that. And that is nothing you want.’
She breathed deeply and allowed the crisp masculine scent to fill her nostrils. She’d shed all the tears she needed to over that man and what he’d done to her innocence. Richard was right. She had to start living again. She breathed deeply one more time, made a memory and then sat up.
‘Thank you. I will get some new paints when I next go to the shops.’ She looped a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘The trip might have to wait a while. Perhaps after our engagement is done, I might need to get away to recover. My stepmother might agree. She has always wanted to take the waters.’
A half-smile touched his lips. ‘There, better already.’
‘Much better.’
‘Good.’
His hand stroked her cheek. A warm tingle pulsed through her. He was going to kiss her again. She closed her eyes, parted her lips and hoped.
Rather than kissing her, he gave a great sigh before rapping the carriage roof. The carriage turned around almost immediately.
‘Where are we going?’ Sophie asked, her eyes flying open as a pang of disappointment went through her. No kisses today. Despite his easy words, he felt she was tainted in some way.
‘Back to your home, but I want you to do something for me, Sophie.’
‘What is that?’ she whispered.
‘Give me a chance to prove that I am as far removed from the sort of creature that Cawburn is. I do understand the word no and that when a lady says it, she means it.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘Will you do that for me, Sophie? Judge me for me, rather than considering me to be like Cawburn?’
‘I … I will try.’
The box of paints with its bright colours neatly arrayed stared up at her. She fingered the aquamarine and then the crimson red. Gorgeous rich colours which made her soul ache to use them. She pulled her hand away before the temptation overwhelmed her.
‘You have given me oil paints?’
‘They seemed more appropriate than watercolours. You are not some milk-sop miss content with a pastel-coloured life, but a vibrant being who requires true colour to match her view of the world,’ Richard replied. ‘Or that was my thought.’
‘I know how to paint with oils. I used to prefer them, but watercolours seem more ladylike.’ Sophie gently closed the wooden box, before she gave in to the urge to start painting there and then. Oil paints were for people who led reckless and chaotic lives, rather than ordered ones.
‘Sophie, you are a lady whether you paint in oil or water. It is how you act. Your stepmother will confirm it.’ He tilted his head. ‘Where is Mrs Ravel? I have a present of wax fruit for her.’
‘She has a dress fitting.’ Sophie gestured to the piles of old magazines, penny-dreadfuls and fashion plates. ‘I’m sorting through these and trying to decide which to keep and which to throw away. I hadn’t thought you would call. There is no At Home on a Friday.’
Rather than living in hope of Richard calling, she had chosen to wear a faded rose-coloured gown with a high-necked collar and her loosest corset. Her hair was drawn back in a simple knot, rather than being artfully done. Sophie absurdly wished she was in the dark-blue gown which set off her eyes and that she had used curling tongs to make sure her ringlets framed her face.
She squashed the thought. It did not matter what he thought of her looks. They were thrown together by circumstance. She was not going to act on any feelings of attraction towards him. He might have been the perfect gentleman yesterday, but could she trust him today?
‘Is there something wrong with a man calling on his fiancée?’ He glanced about the small sitting room which her stepmother and she used in the evenings when they were not entertaining. ‘This room is far more pleasant than the drawing room. Cosy and more you.’
‘No, nothing is wrong. And I like this room better with fewer china ornaments to knock.’ Sophie picked up a brush and toyed with it, twisting it about her fingers. ‘I will make sure my stepmother gets the fruit. It is good of you to remember her.’
‘I have brought some paper as well as a variety of pencils,’ Richard said, holding out another parcel. ‘In case you didn’t have any. I wasn’t sure about the size of canvas you might require, but the man at the shop will drop off a selection later today.’
Sophie tilted her head to one side, eyeing the parcel with suspicion. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you giving me these things?’
‘Have you forgotten what we spoke about yesterday? You promised to try drawing again. As you said you stopped four years ago, I reckoned you would not have paints, pencils or drawing paper.’ His eyes glinted gold. ‘Finding excuses is a terrible thing.’
‘Spoken like someone who knows.’
‘There are things I avoided until I was forced to,’ he admitted with a studied shrug.
Sophie caught her breath and waited.
‘I am not here to speak about my failings,’
he said finally. ‘Know I have many. Are you going to draw?’
‘And I do intend to after I have finished with the magazines. But these are far too much, Richard.’ Sophie gave the paintbox a wistful stroke. The tubes were new and unclotted. When she had looked this morning at her old oil paints, she couldn’t even squeeze the tube, the paint was so old and cracked. Her brushes were matted and glued. The thought of going and buying more had been beyond her and she’d put it off for another day.
‘What is the harm in spoiling you? Do you like them?’
‘Very much,’ Sophie admitted. ‘I am puzzled why you have given me all this.’
‘Can’t a man give his fiancée a present?’
‘It is nothing that others will see,’ she explained. ‘I’m hardly likely to bring it up in conversation, either.’
‘And what of it? You will know I gave it to you. Sometimes it is not about creating an impression, Sophie, but doing the right thing.’ He shrugged. ‘After our conversation yesterday, I wanted to encourage you. To paint.’
She knew he was talking about more than that. He wanted her to stop allowing The Incident to rule her life. Rather than fearing it, a sort of reckless excitement filled her. It was an unexpected challenge. ‘You are very kind.’
‘Some day you might get to the Alps and want to paint, but you won’t have practised for a long time. You need to practise now, so you are ready. The wax fruit are in case you need a subject. But I thought your stepmother was more the wax-fruit type.’
‘I will definitely go … one of these days.’ Privately Sophie vowed that she would go once they had ended. And she would paint meadows filled with flowers with snow-capped mountains towering over them. It would be a way to ease the pain in her heart. She froze and buried the thought. She liked Richard and enjoyed his company, but nothing more. They could never be real friends. There was far too much between them. After this false engagement ended, she’d never see him
